Size 6+ Need Not Enter

Want to feel self conscious and as insecure as a 13-year-old girl?

Want to see every imperfection and flaw your body has, making you wish life and mirrors came with air brushing?

Stay out of the dressing rooms!

I am not a self conscious person.

I am not fat.

I have curves. I will never be a size 2 and for the most part I'm okay with that. Until I go dress shopping.

But nothing makes me feel worse than trying on clothes.

I would rather bring home items and find they are a tad to small or a tad to big then deal with seeing myself in a full length mirror on four walls pointing out every flaw.

I swear dressing rooms are designed to make me feel as horrible about my self as possible.

Nothing makes me feel worse about myself then not fitting into a pair of jeans or dresses that are marked as my size.

Not only am I self conscious of my body in the dressing room, I then have to deal with the added annoyance of nothing fitting.

Everything is beyond tight and accents the hips in the worse way possible.

I know sizes vary by designer, but when I can't tell the difference between a size 2 and a size 6 (for the guys it's like an 18 and a 24) then there is something wrong with the models, claiming to be a size 6, or I need to eat nothing but laxatives and drink nothing but water.

That's the perfect thing to eat at Thanksgiving.

"No, no stuffing for me. Thanks. I'll just eat these laxatives while I watch you eat that delicious turkey. I'm thinking that will bring a very quick family intervention.

I can accept I am not seven feet tall and weigh more than 50 pounds. Really, I can accept it.

I cannot accept that I am unable to fit into a size supposedly two times larger than my normal one. Not that it won't zip, or it stretches across my hips straining the material making it look like waves. No, I'm talking about a dress I can't even get over my shoulders.

I promise I was not in the junior department.

If it says it is my size, it should at least fit. It's one thing to be a tad to small, because nothing is made exactly the same; but it's something else entirely when two times larger than my size is still to small.

If it's going to be that bad, why can't the store put up a sign saying, unless you're boobless and look like a cocaine addicted, anorexic skeleton please save yourself the trouble, buy yourself a cookie and don't try anything on in this store.

What a wonderful sign that would be. I can go on my merry way eating a cookie and find a dress in a store that fits me; without the help of a glue gun, safety pins, and three women trying to squeeze the zipper shut.

Okay, it was never that bad, but it sure felt like it.

So, after a major hit to the self esteem and wondering what the best diet would be to lose 75 pounds before Chris's Christmas party, in a week; I found a dress.

Twenty minutes later Visa notified Chris I found the perfect dress 1,900 miles from home. Got to love security.

Making Good Decisions

I have a friend that says there are two decisions you make with every action. The wrong decision and the proper one.

Being tailgated?
Proper decision: Pull over in a well lit parking lot, like a gas station or an open shopping center and hope the car passes.
Bad decision: Slamming on your breaks, cursing him, while you wave a gun around.

On my way to the library today a dark car turned out into traffic behind me. The road is always crowded, mostly because of the abundance of traffic lights stopping cars every twenty feet. I really wish I was exaggerating.

I don't observe the three car length between me and and the car in front of me. Mostly because I would have cars cutting me off every three seconds, and I would never leave the intersection during rush hour. So I don't blame the car for being on my bumper.

I just don't like it. If I can't see your headlights or bumper I know you are way to close.

I tried my best to brake gently so I didn't have Mr. Put my car as close to you as possible so when you brake I can sue you for stopping short and damaging my car so I can get the dent fixed that's been there for over a year and not have to pay for it.

I stayed exactly 30 mph, the posted speed limit. I made sure I used my turn signal, I stopped fully at stop signs and well behind the white line before I crept up to make my right turn on red. I became the infuriating perfect driver.

Every turn I made the car followed me, inching closer and closer. I swear he was a centipede width away from my bumper.

Remember what car I drive. My rear bumper can rest gently on the hood of his car, with little to no damage done to my vehicle. With this in mind I kept on driving to my destination. I figured if he followed me into the parking lot, I could loop around and drive the 30 feet to the police station.

I look in my rear view mirror one more time and feel like an idiot. I don't know why I didn't see it before, but I was ecstatic I was the perfect driver. On the dashboard sat more equipment than Inspector Gadget could dream of.

There was an extra side mirror, one of those round ones that eliminate your blind spot. There was also an uniformed officer with aviators behind the steering wheel.

I was being tailgated by an unmarked police car. A police officer. One of Redmond's finest.

Well, if I'm going to be tailgated by a cop' I might as well have some fun. I purposely drove around the block the library is on, past the police station entrance. He did not turn into the police station.

Weird.

He stayed closer than white on rice to me as I navigated a shopping center parking lot.

He got even closer when I braked for school children crossing the street.

I looped the block, turned on my blinker to indicate my left hand turn into the library. He stayed behind me.

I waited for a very large gap, not wanting him to think I was endangering lives with a quick turn into the parking lot. This was a good ten minute wait. He waited.

I should have offered him coffee. That was rude of me.

I turned into the library, and he quickly made a U-turn cutting off a minivan and returned in the direction we came from.

Apparently, the three turn law does not apply here. Or he knew I knew he was cop and wanted to have some fun. Or he was running my drivers record trying to figure out where Ferris State is located.

Way to keep the streets safe Mr. Police Officer.

Death by Hypothermia

Jeans, long sleeve shirt, hoodie, and ski socks are not enough to keep me warm this dreary day. I've burrowed under an afghan (the blanket, not a person from Afghanistan) a down comforter, a jersey blanket (blanket made out of same material as my comfy hoodie) and a no sew fleece blanket.

I swear I can see my breath when I exhale. I also think my eyes are at risk of freezing shut.

No, we have not moved to the Russian Tundra, Antarctica, or the North Pole. We are still living in the so called temperate climate of the Northwest.

I love cold weather. I really do. In fact, I'm encouraging the rain and cold. It means snow in the mountains. That means skiing.
I just don't think my house should be colder than outside.

Light the fire place you tell me; turn on the heat you tell me. A normal person would. Except, our fireplace is blocked by a TV stand and two monitors. To light a fire would probably ensure I burned down my apartment.

"Yeah, hi Honey, I'm just interrupting you at work to tell you I burned down our apartment complex."

That's going to go over so well.

As for being a normal person and turning on the heat?

Well...

I have a husband that left the house this morning dressed as if it was the middle of July. If he thinks 40 degrees is warm enough to wear shorts; he's going to think ice hanging from the ceiling is perfect weather to have a pool party.

The compromise has been setting the thermostat to 50. It was a compromise mostly because Chris left for the weekend and I wasn't going to freeze to death.

Chris might become a tad chilly, but is able to become warm with one blanket; unlike some, who needs every blanket and hand warmers.

It's alright. I get the last laugh in the summer, when its 90 and Chris claims to be melting.

All I have to do is not suffer hypothermia before then.

Keeping in Touch

I'm technically sitting in your pocket, purse, jacket or bag. I'm sitting on your desk, floor, couch, chair, or under the mail and bills.

Okay, maybe not me personally, but whatever device you have that connects me to you is.

Gone are the days of writing letters to people. Gone are the days with phones ringing in empty houses. Technically, the days are gone where you even have to call someone. Or use a phone. You can Email, Facebook, and Twitter someone faster than calling them. Remember Instant Message? Wow, that was instant.

It's so easy now to spit out a 100 character text to your friends that you forget what their voices sound like.

It's so easy to stay connected with friends, except I don't.

Yup, you heard that right. I rarely talk to my high school and college friends. I check their status updates, and read their tweets, but I never really talk to them.

 I know my friend in Alaska is doing well, and her husband is training for the State Troopers, but I haven't talked to her since high school, and haven't typed her since fall of 2009.

Thank you, Facebook.

At this rate, do we even need class reunions? Will I even remember how to talk to these people?

Yes, of course I will. But it's just crazy that I just hung up the phone with one of my best friends, and she pointed out we've only talked once in the last year. And that was at Chris and my wedding. Oops.

We email weekly, and are constantly sending texts back and forth. But an actual conversation? Nope.

We've both been extremely busy. She's working three jobs and studying for a personal training license. I've been writing, and job searching. There is also the three hour time difference that makes it tricky.

If I wait longer than 6 p.m. PT than I'm afraid it's to late to call. Wow, we've become lame in our post college years.

It's also awkward. Not always, but sometimes. I spoke to a friend from high school this past weekend, for the first time in forever. It wasn't awkward, as much as there wasn't anything to say. We knew what was happening because we're addicted to Facebook, and know everything that has been happening.

Thanks Mark Z. Way to kill conversation.

I know letter writing is not going to come back. I think we've all established we would rather deal with Internet viruses and spam then waiting five to seven days for a letter. That isn't time efficient at all. I need an answer, and I need one now damnit!

Need? No. Expect? Yes.

Why?

Because it's the 21st century and I know you have multiple ways of me contacting you.

Stalkers. We've all become crazy stalkers.

All I want is to know if you want to go to the bar tonight, and I've turned into a crazy person.

I tried going off the grid last month, and I'll post a blog about that later, but I've never felt more alone, and left out  of what is happening in the world.

No wonder Charles Dickens was such a dark writer. He didn't have anything to keep in contact with his chaps from school. If only he had Facebook. No. A phone. No. Email. No.

 Writing letters probably worked out well for people back then.

As for now, I think I need to work on communicating. Or at least checking Facebook more often.